


Waves

by threemeows



Category: To All the Boys I've Loved Before (Movies), To All the Boys I've Loved Before Series - Jenny Han, To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before (2018)
Genre: F/M, ps I still love you, spec fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:13:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21987208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threemeows/pseuds/threemeows
Summary: Decided to make this a repository for spec fic based from the P.S. I Still Love You Trailer.
Relationships: John Ambrose McClaren & Lara Jean Song-Covey, John Ambrose McClaren/Lara Jean Song-Covey, Peter Kavinsky & Lara Jean Song-Covey, Peter Kavinsky/Lara Jean Song-Covey
Comments: 100
Kudos: 220





	1. Waves

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea if this is gonna happen the way it’s gonna happen but it’s fun to guess right? 🤣
> 
> Sorry for funky formatting. I posted this from my phone. I’ll fix when I have access to a computer again.

The earth is out of alignment. 

No, it’s probably just fine, but staring up at the globe, hanging way above her from the main level, is giving Lara Jean a headache. The hushed chatter of her classmates, the squeak of sneakers on tiled floor - the way the wave power display rotates, casting watery dark blue lines everywhere in the bottom level of the atrium ... It almost makes her skin itch. 

She stares at the tank of jellyfish, uncomprehending. Grasps the locket tighter - hugs herself tighter, too.

“Hey.”

Lara Jean, turns - blinks. Her heart seems to nosedive. Peter is standing before her, eyes on the floor - he meets her gaze, for a half-second, and his brows turn down, like he’s trying to figure out what to say, before the corner of his mouth turns up, half-hearted. 

She worries the inside of her cheek with her teeth. After what happened at Friday’s game, John had driven her straight back home. Peter had texted, a bunch of times, over the weekend. Called, too. But she never answered. She was glad for today’s field trip - technically one more day off from school, one more day where she could avoid running into him during class, or in the halls. 

It’s crazy - that only a couple of weeks ago, they were so close - talking every day, watching lanterns float into the dark sky, whirling around on carnival rides. Peter might as well be as far from her as that globe.

“Hey,” she says back. It comes out barely a whisper, so she tries again. “Hey.”

Peter nods once, then lifts his chin to somewhere off to the side. “Can we - uh, can we go and talk for a minute?” 

Lara Jean fiddles with her locket. Sometimes it feels like she’s got all the engraving patterns memorized - every whorl and swirl, every curved line, that flows to the center heart, etched into her fingertips - like another set of finger prints. 

And yet - she can only stand there, and stare up at him, her lower lip in between her teeth. Because her heart is bottoming out again - because she knows -

“I don’t think there’s anything left to say,” she says, thin-voiced. Because there really isn’t. She knows what she saw at the lax game - Peter, holding Gen. She saw it all, while dressed in school colors like a dumb rally girl, with his number and his initials on her cheeks, like a dumb girlfriend being cheated on. She was so dumb. She is so dumb. 

Lara Jean gulps, because she’s close to crying, and she’d held it together at the game, she’d held it together while John drove her home all apologetic and awkward and sympathetic, which somehow made her want to cry even _more_ , but she didn’t, she stopped herself - and there’s simply no way, no how, that she’s going to lose it now. 

Peter sighs, like he’s tired, like he’s exhausted, and there’s a flare of anger that goes through her -  _He doesn’t get to be tired_ \- and he says, “Covey, I know what it looks like, but for the last time, I didn’t -"

She shakes her head, closes her eyes - takes a bit step back, away from him. “She posted that video. Even if you weren’t - how could you still be talking with her? How could you -"

“Lara Jean, I can’t just -"

“I would never do that to you,” she interrupts bitterly. “I could never hurt you that much."

He barks out a laugh, but there’s no humor there - shakes his head. His jaw works before he spits out, “Yeah? Wanna tell me why you were at the game with McClaren?”

“I wasn’t with John,” she says, insulted. He scoffs, still shaking his head. “It was his school, Peter. We were just hanging out before the game.” It’s suddenly very important to clarify that fact. 

(She did  _not_ blush when he grinned and came up to her in the guest bleachers to say hello. She did _not_ giggle too much while they joked around and he tugged at her pigtail.)

“Right. Very convenient. He just shows up out of the blue - where you volunteer -"

“I told you, his grandma lives there -"

“ - With your letter -"

“You of all people know I didn’t send him it -"

“ - He’s had a thing for you since middle school.” 

Lara Jean stops, surprised. “How did - ?”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Oh my god, Covey.  _Everyone_ knew. No one could figure out why you said no to the formal.”

Her mouth falls open, just a bit. But enough for Peter to nod, in realization. “He never asked.”

Lara Jean rolls her eyes. It doesn’t matter. That was ages ago, when they were all little kids. They’re not little kids anymore. 

“This isn’t about John, so don’t try to make it out like it is,” she says. “It’s about you cheating on me.”

“I told you I never have,” Peter says, frustrated.

“Right,” she says. “You’re not cheating on me, but you’re always with her. Except you can’t - or won’t - say what for. So it’s either you’re cheating on me or ... or what? What is it?”

He shakes his head. “Lara Jean. I - I can’t. I can’t, I’m sorry. I promised.”

It’s like a slap in the face. She even takes a step backwards, blinking blindly up at him, the shock of his words forcing all the breath from her body. Peter seems to almost deflate - he closes his eyes, and says tightly, “I - look, I - I didn’t mean it like -"

She looks down, and all she can see is the locket, clutched in her shaking fingers. She can’t hear anything he’s trying to splutter out. All she can think is that she wants to say something - anything - anything that would be as hurtful as how much he hurt her. But she can’t think of anything, she can’t get it out, because it’s like something is sitting on her chest, heavy, oppressive, a sudden weight that she needs to get rid off  now, like she’s drowning under a wave \- 

She lets the locket fall against her breastbone - reaches behind her, searches blindly for the clasp. 

“H-here,” she says, struggling. “You should have this back.”

Peter’s eyes widen. “Wait. What?”

“You should have this back,” she repeats. She can’t find the clasp. Her fingers are trembling too much. Frustrated, she pulls at the chain, soshe can see the clasp in front of her eyes - fumbles some more - and finally, mercifully pushes the necklace at Peter. His eyes widen even more. “I don’t want it anymore.”

“Lara Jean.”

She presses her lips together, a hard line, at the sound of his voice - raw, like he couldn’t get out her name. She shakes her head, staring at some spot on the floor- pushes the necklace at his chest and drops it, so he has no choice but to catch it before it falls onto the tiles. 

“Maybe you can give it to your real girlfriend.” Then she whirls around, up the spiral staircase, up to the main floor - to daylight - through the front doors and into the science center parking lot. The bus driver is startled out of his nap, but lets her in, and she finds the last seat, where she plops down, folds her legs into her chest, and promptly begins to cry into her knees. 

That’s where Chris finds her, ten minutes later, her brows knit in concern and a sneer on the corner of her mouth. “I’ll kill him, the asshole,” she growls, sitting down next to her and putting an arm around her shoulders.

Lara Jean just nuzzles her face into Chris’s neck. “I’m sorry I’m all slobbery,” she mumbles, miserable. 

“Feh,” Chris says, stroking her back. “You’ll be okay.”

She takes a few wobbly sniffles. “Did you see if he’s okay?” she asks before she can stop herself. She winces.  _I sound pathetic_.  She shouldn’t care if Peter’s okay or not. She shouldn’t. After all, he’s the one who did this. He’s the one who broke her heart, after he promised not to. He  promised, and he did it anyway. 

But she’d also seen the look on his face, right before she turned on her heel and fled. Like she’d broken her promise to him, too. 

Chris snorts, “Not a single fuck was given,” which makes Lara Jean laugh, still teary, despite herself. Chris hugs her closer and Lara Jean settles in, watches her tears, grey from her mascara and eyeliner, drop onto the denim of her jeans. 

And when the other students finally file on, laughing and joking around, and she sees a familiar figure climb onto the bus and start forward - then stop, suddenly, when he spots her - she turns her head and looks out the window, pretending, desperately, not to care. 


	2. Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For saywhatjenn who asked for the snow globe scene.

They’ve only got six tickets left. The only game that will let them both play with six tickets between them is the one where you have to shoot water into the open mouth of a grinning clown and see whose balloon pops first. Peter brags that he’s going to win, “Easy,” he boasts, sitting down on the stool in front of his water gun.

“You’re so arrogant,” Lara Jean says, flipping her hair over her shoulders. She eyes the guns as Peter threads his fingers together, turns his hands outward, and stretches. Although he’s probably telling the truth. She’s never been good at this game.

“We should make it interesting,” Peter says. “Like a bet.”

“No,” Lara Jean laughs.

“What? Scared you’d lose?” Peter waggles his eyebrows at her.

“You basically said you’d win,” she counters. “So what’s the point of a bet?”

“I’ll go easy on you,” he says. “I’ll let you shoot first. Give you a head start.”

Lara Jean eyes him, cautious. “So what are we betting on, then?”

He just gives her a slow, lazy grin – grabs her hand and pulls her towards him so that she’s standing in front of him. She feels her face flush, a little thrill of excitement tickling her insides, as he smiles up at her, eyes half-lidded. “I’ll think of something,” he murmurs, and puts his hand on the back of her head, to pull her face down for a kiss. But Lara Jean grins and steps away and takes a seat on the stool next to him. “Okay, you’re on,” she says, primly, ignoring his fake-affronted groan. “Five second head start.”

The attendant rings the buzzer. Lara Jean aims for her clown’s open mouth and shoots. The balloon on top of its head starts to inflate with water. Peter starts counting loudly, exaggerated. “One . . . two . . .” The balloon starts to really get big. Alarmed, he rushes forward, “threefourFIIIIIIIVE,” and pulls his trigger, sending a spray of water into the mouth of his clown. “GOGOGOGOGOGOGO!”

Lara Jean shrieks with laughter, half-outraged, “Wait, no fair, cheater! That’s not five seconds!”

His balloon starts to inflate, but she’s got a good head start, to the point where Peter starts cursing, “Ah, shit!” and she erupts into cackling laughter, as her balloon starts to grow to twice the size as his. She turns to him, and blows a raspberry. “Game, set – ”

Peter’s balloon, despite being half the size as hers, pops suddenly.

“Winner!” the attendant announces, as alarm bells ring, and Lara Jean screams, and Peter shouts, “Yeeeesssss!” and pumps both fists in the air. He nearly falls backwards off of his stool.

“That was cheating!” she says, rising to punch him on the arm, but he dodges out of the way. “I can’t believe you!” She tries to kick him in the shins, glad she elected to wear her heeled combat boots tonight. “I was totally going to win!”

“But that’s the thing! I did cheat, but at the same time, I won fair and square! Ow! Hey hey hey that actually hurt – ”

“You won because you got lucky!” she grumbles, going for another punch to his chest, but she misses and he ends up folding her into a huge bear hug, so that they both nearly topple over. “Eeep! Watch it – ”

“Sorry,” he laughs, but doesn’t let go. He grins down at her, triumphant. “Now . . . time to pay up.” His eyes twinkle, mischievous – daring.

It’s tiny – the jolt, that goes through her, that makes her blink and avert her gaze, suddenly uncomfortable at the expression in those dark eyes of his. Because – because what is he really asking for? What does he _really_ want?

. . . what is she willing to give . . .?

It’s not like she _hasn’t_ thought about that kind of stuff. She has. A lot.

She’s thought about Gen. About how many times – how much stuff – Peter has done with Gen. About how much stuff she, herself, has not. About how much he has. About how he may have said physical stuff was a big deal to him – but hey, he laughed about it on the bus, reveled in it – and he never actually said he _hadn’t_ done physical stuff.

She can feel her face pinch, her insides do a dance that’s both exciting and alarming, and she tries to say something – something easy, something teasing – something Peter would say, but she ends up glubbing at him like a fish out of water.

Peter shifts – seems to almost nod. He lets her go, but keeps a light grip on her hand. “Ah, well, you know what?” he says, nodding over to the prizes on the shelves of the stall. “You’re right. I did cheat. And I guess I did get lucky. So – you pick. You win.”

Lara Jean nods, at once relieved and disappointed, but she covers it up with a smile. “Okay,” she says, and studies the shelves. Something immediately catches her eye. “Oh, that one, please!” she says, pointing.

“One snow globe coming right up,” the attendant says, climbing up on the ladder to retrieve it.

“Seriously?” Peter says, as she thanks the attendant and they walk off.

“What?” Lara Jean says, studying it. The glass is the size of a grapefruit. Inside are two figures, a girl and a boy, embracing. “They’re perfect. This is perfect. Watch.”

He wraps his arms around her from behind, and she puts it upside down – feels his lips brush the apple of her cheek as she shakes. Her heart flutters along with the snowflakes as she rights the globe. Everything is perfect in their little sparkling world, just the two of them, frozen forever, nothing to trouble them, not even the snowflakes.

*

There’s something slow playing, the singer crooning on about only having eyes for his loved one, but otherwise the courtyard in Belleview is quiet, the kind of hushed, muted atmosphere that you only get during the snowfall. She can’t even hear the sounds of the party behind her, in the main hall.

“Oh, wow,” Lara Jean breathes, looking all around the courtyard – at the softly glowing string lights, the candles and the flowers and the snow wafting down around them. It looks magical, right out of a storybook. Complete with the handsome prince . . . “I can’t believe you did this.”

“Well, I figured you deserved a reward for all your hard work for the party,” John says, his hands in his pockets. “You like it?”

“Of course I do!” she says, and walks forward to hug him. “It’s perfect. Thank you.” She starts to pull away, but his hand on her waist stills her, keeping her close. She holds onto his arm, to steady herself. She can see the curve of his mouth, and every snowflake on his lashes.

“If I didn’t know you were still hung up on Kavinsky, I would kiss you right now,” he says.

Lara Jean, startled, looks up at him. “O-oh.”

He gives a her a small smile, the corner of his mouth – and what a pretty mouth, she thinks, full-lipped and sweet-looking – turns up, just so. “I like you, Lara Jean,” he says. “I liked you then and I like you even more now. I know you and Kavinsky just broke up, and you’re still sad, but I just want to make it unequivocally clear.”

Her heart dips, and swoops – there is something just so genuine about him, about his nervous smile . . . his unequivocal clearness. But she doesn’t really know how to reply, because he’s right – she _is_ still sad about Peter, although the warmth blossoming through her is making the ache in heart lessen, bit by bit.

So takes his hand in hers, and lay her face against his shoulder gently. Soon, they’re swaying to the music, under the snowflakes, in their own little world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John’s speech is taken directly from the book, although I spliced them together.


	3. Lanterns

When Covey told him to sit back, that she would drive, and that she had a surprise for him, Peter thought it would be something more Covey-like. Like a freshly baked cake waiting for him at her house. He wouldn’t say no to that kind of surprise. (Especially if it was gonna be that triple fudge cake she made that one time back when they were still fake dating. Especially that one.)

He wasn’t expecting this - some otherworldly ceremony in the middle of the park, in the middle of the night. It looks they walked right into the chapter of a fairytale storybook. Which, now that he thinks about it, shouldn’t be so surprising. That’s straight up Lara Jean - a pretty woodland sprite, from her own fairy tale, who somehow wandered into reality.   
  
“ _How_ did you know about this?” he asks, propping himself up on his elbow next to her on the blanket.  
  
“I have my ways,” she says, mysterious. But then she sobers, and says, swirling the brush in the can of paint, “My mom used to take me and Margot.”  
  
He watches her face sadden, that little half-second pause she does whenever she’s remembering her mom - and that same feeling he had in his kitchen overtakes him, an overwhelming urge to touch her cheek, hold her to him - let her know it’s going to be okay. Protect her.  
  
Except Covey’s never really been like that. Not in the way that Gen had been. That’s the thing about Lara Jean Song-Covey. She’s this tiny, little thing - and she’s gone through so much - but girl’s got a backbone made of steel. Ultimately, Peter believes, she doesn’t need anyone to prop her up.  
  
Least of all him.  
  
And that’s the terrifying thing about her, this 5’2” dynamo that jumped him on the track field. That she can up and leave him in the dust, without a second thought. Leave him spinning and floored, on the ground without his bearings - like she almost did, before the ski trip. Like she did after the ski trip.  
  
So instead of reaching out, he asks, quietly, “What did you paint on your lanterns?”  
  
“All kinds of things,” she says, shrugging. “You know. Stars. Hearts. Unicorns, when we were really little.” Peter makes a face and she giggles. “Oh gimme a break. We were little girls. What would you have painted?”  
  
He shrugs. “I dunno. Superheroes, mostly. Spider-Man.”  
  
“Peter Parker, of course,” she says, drolly, and he presses his ring and middle finger to the heel of his palm, flicks his wrist at her, and makes a hissing sound like a web-shooter. She giggles and bats at his hand, but he grabs hers and threads his fingers through hers - holding her down, to him, in case she flies away.  
  
“Was that it?” he asks.  
  
“No.” She flushes, looks down. “We painted wishes, too.”  
  
“Wishes, huh?” he whispers, looking at the curve of her eyelashes.  
  
“Yeah.” Her gaze flicks up at him, then down again, at their entwined hands. “If - if I knew it could come true, I’d wish for my mom back.”  
  
His throat closes up. He thinks about Dad - about the last time he even bothered calling. Peter can’t even remember when that was. He wonders if Dad’s doing peewee lacrosse with what’s-his-face now. Would he wish that for himself? For Dad to come back ...?  
  
No. Because that’s not happening, either.  
  
“So wish for something that could come true,” he murmurs. “Name it. And I’ll make sure it happens.”  
  
She scrunches her nose at him. “Aaaannnnything? Like a trip to Disney World?”  
  
“Well, that might take some time. And like, I’d have to ask Mom for a raise at the store, maybe even get another side hustle -”  
  
She laughs. “So not _anything_.”  
  
He scrunches his nose back at her, glad she’s smiling again. “Anything within reason.”  
  
She pauses, falters a little. He nods at her. “Hey. What’s up?”  
  
“Remember dinner? How I said this was my first real date? My first real anything?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Well ... how do I know I’m doing it right? All of it? Like ... what if I end messing it up -“  
  
He barks out a laugh. “Covey. It’s just - you just do it. It’s not rocket science. You don’t need like, a playbook. Or a ... contract.” He pauses, looks at her, worrying her lip and puzzling something out that shouldn’t need to be puzzled over. She’d asked about the same thing on the lacrosse field. “We should just write another. How about that?”  
  
“Another contract?” He nods. “What would we even say on it?”  
  
He shrugs. “I dunno. What do you want it to say?”  
  
She screws up her mouth. He’s expecting her to say something funny. Like designated romcom time, which he’ll grudgingly accept as long as there’s a clause on action and horror movie night. (There’s no way he’ll admit he actually liked _Sleepless in Seattle_.)  
  
But then pauses, as if she wants to say something, but then changes her mind and murmurs, shaky, like she’s scared, “Can we promise not to break each other’s hearts?”  
  
He wants to sigh with relief. Covers it up with a laugh instead. Wouldn’t do to completely give it all up.  
  
He can definitely get behind that kind of contract. He’ll never break her heart. Ever. Not when she’s become so ... so very important to him.  
  
Her face lights up at his laugh, brighter than the lanterns already taking flight around them. He sits up, lets go of her hand - takes the brush from her. He uses big, but careful, brush strokes. “I promise,” he says, with utter seriousness, as he finishes the _K_ , “I’m not going to break your heart.”  
  
Lara Jean takes the brush from him, and adds her initials in front of his and a fancy ampersand - because _of course_. “And I promise not to break your heart,” she says, simply, finishing the love heart around their initials. Then she dumps the brush into the can and hands him the lighter. “Come on.”  
  
A few minutes later, he watches their lantern float into the night sky - he watches Lara Jean’s face under the warm glow of hundreds of lanterns, her smile wide and free and completely delighted - and he’s pretty, fiercely certain he’s fallen all over again for her.  
  
*  
  
Later, after he’s broken that promise - he finds himself back at the park. It takes him a second to realize it - that he and Gen have taken the path back to that very field. But it’s dark now, lit only by the few lamps on the path, and no one is on the field, making promises they couldn’t keep.  
  
“You thought anymore about it?” he asks, taking a sip of his hot chocolate, as he sits on the park bench.  
  
“Thought about what?” Gen asks, taking a seat next to him. She reaches into her handbag and pulls out a flask.   
  
“Come on, Gen,” he snaps, pulling it from her grasp. His hot chocolate goes flying but he ignores it and unscrews her flask and dumps all the contents onto the grass. Vodka - straight. “You said you were stopping.”  
  
“Yeah, well that was before I saw Dad with her again,” she snits, crossing her arms. “You owe me. That’s from the liquor cabinet.”  
  
Something about the way she says it sets him off. The entitlement. The fact that he’s here, of all places, but with Gen. Trying desperately to prevent her from self-destructing, and only burning himself in the process.  
  
And he’s tired. He’s so goddamn tired of it.  
  
“You said you’d go to that therapist,” he says, evenly enough. “You said you’d call her. Why the fuck haven’t you already?”  
  
Gen stares, alarmed. “I - well - I just don’t think -“  
  
Peter shakes his head. He tosses the empty flask into her lap and stands up. It’s starless tonight, the sky covered up by purpled grey clouds - it’s going to snow, soon. He scrubs his hand down his face, exhausted. “I’ll drive you home,” he says, “and on the way, you’re calling that therapist.”  
  
“I haven’t cut in weeks,” she says, dully.  
  
“Yeah?” He looks at her. “And if I drop you off at your place and say this is the last time we’re talking, are you gonna go upstairs and cut again?”  
  
She blinks up at him - something seems to die in her eyes. “What kind of hold does she have over you?” she says, almost wondering. Like she can’t get it. Understand it. Maybe she never could.  
  
Peter doesn’t answer her. Only walks her back to his car. As they buckle in, he hands her his phone, with the therapist’s number typed in already.  
  
*  
  
It takes a while. There’s screaming and shouting from Gen, but he lets Wendy know what’s going on with her daughter, and that they made an appointment with the therapist, and he’s sorry he didn’t tell her sooner, but he didn’t know what else to do. He’s glad her dad isn’t there, and it feels weird to leave the both of them like this, red-eyed and angry at each other, but he still leaves quietly, shutting the front door softly behind him. With the click it’s like a weight’s been lifted off his chest, a wave of a relief that makes him feel like he can suddenly breathe again.

On the way home from Gen’s house he sees the road signs. He remembers something Covey said a while ago, before they broke up - about organizing that party for the residents. She called it something stupidly cheesy - Senior Prom? - and he’d laughed and she’d smacked him on the shoulder. She’d been a little hurt, he could tell, but he’d brushed it off as teasing - that she shouldn’t take things so seriously. Now, he wishes he could go back and ask her how all her planning is going, if she needs help. Does she want him to ... does she even care that he ...?  
  
Does she miss him, as much as he misses her?  
  
Before he knows it, he’s following the road signs, bringing his Jeep up to the gravel drive of the big house. There is a party going in there - the windows lit up in a dull orange glow. It's so dark that the windows almost look like lanterns floating upward into the sky. And there's music - the kind of music Lara Jean likes to listen to while baking - wafting out under the din of chatter and laughter. So it happened. She did it.  
  
Peter opens the glove compartment, and pulls out the necklace. He’d shoved it in there after they got back from the field trip - so blindly pissed and shocked, he hadn’t had the guts to go back and return it to Mom’s store. He doesn’t know why he’s kept it in there so long. Just that ... it wouldn’t look right on any other girl.  
  
It’s stupid. She might not even be here. They could be hosting some other thing for the residents. But Peter gets out of the car, shoves the necklace, and his hands, in his jacket pockets.  
  
By the time he reaches the front door to Belleview, the snowflakes have started to fall. 


	4. Floor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> inspired by the variety article with lana where it says "they have the talk." ;)

Lara Jean yawns, checks her phone. She’s got about another hour before she has to head to Belleview and meet with Janette. She places her chin on top of her laced fingers and goes back to her non-reading of her history textbook.  
  
The mattress springs squeak. Lara Jean looks up as Peter joins her on the rug on the floor. He stretches his body out, long, next to her and lies on his side. “How much longer?” he asks, quietly.  
  
She turns on her side to face him. “Another hour.” He’s not looking at her - he’s looking at her hair, playing with the long strands. Anticipation grows in the pit of her stomach - soft, exciting. His mom is at a travel soccer tournament with Owen. Her dad has an emergency delivery at the hospital. Kitty’s at a friend’s.  
  
She doesn’t know who reaches for who first, just that her textbook is suddenly in a heap underneath his desk, and she’s twined up with him.  
  
This is the part she likes - loves. His hands on her sides, his kisses - warm and slightly wet and opened-mouthed - on her lips, her jaw, her throat.  
  
She’s just not sure if she’d Iike ... more.  
  
“God, you’re so hot,” he whispers, against her throat. His hand goes up, underneath her sweater - his thumb ducks underneath the underwire of her bra. A thrill, terrifying and wonderful all the same, goes through her - but she can’t seem to say anything, can’t seem to get anything out but a little high-pitched moan - her hands spasm on his back, and then he’s cupping her breast underneath her bra.  
  
She sighs - arches underneath him - her hips go up, and that’s when she realizes he’s somehow gotten in between her legs, that his other hand is going up her leg, past her knee-high and underneath her skirt. _Oh? Oh_. It’s hard to concentrate, to take it all in - and then his hand is right on the inside of her thigh, large, slightly damp with sweat, searing. She’s suddenly all too aware if that he shifts just a inch, his fingers would be inside her underwear.  
  
He mumbles something into her mouth, something low and heated. She tries to break the kiss - get some air - she feels like she’s literally drowning - but he just kisses her again, keeps moving his thumb across her nipple. “God, Lara Jean you’re so -“ His hand, on her thigh, moves – she murmurs something, a sigh of assent, and he pushes the wet cotton of her underwear aside, and suddenly she feels one of his fingers slip inside her and it’s so hot suddenly, she feels like her heart is hammering out of her chest.  
  
“LJ, god,” Peter’s babbling, practically incoherent, his finger pushing all the way inside until she feels the palm of his hand against her. He presses repeatedly against a spot somewhere inside her and her entire body seems to hum with each push, a vibration that just grows - and through it all, she keeps wondering, keeps worrying - should she be doing something else? Something more? She’s just lying here and it’s - it doesn’t seem really _fair_ \-   
  
So she reaches blindly - it’s awkward, he’s got her pinned to the rug, her arm hurts - and then her fingers brush against his dick, bulging in his jeans - stays there, pushes against him. He seems to pause for a second, a sharp exhalation of breath puffs into her mouth, and then he’s moving his finger inside her harder, and the humming feeling is growing, growing - and before she knows it she’s grabbed hold of him fully.   
  
His hips jerk. “God - Lara Jean, I love you. I lo – ”  
  
That. Whoa. _What_. Lara Jean’s eyes fly open. She lets go of him, shocked. “W-wait. Peter. Stop.” He stops immediately, pulls away. The loss of whatever was building inside her is a like a bucket of cold water splashed over her face. But its nothing compared to what he just said. She sits up and straightens her skirt, her sweater. Tries to breathe. Doesn’t look at him.  
  
He’s said it once before.  
  
She knows she’s never said it back.

She pulls at the edge of her skirt again, nervous. A knee-high has fallen down to almost her ankle. She tugs at it, rolls the cotton up carefully.

Behind her, Peter’s laid back down on the floor, arm over his eyes, breathing slowly. She glances over her shoulder at him. “Um – are you – okay?”

“I’m cool,” he mumbles from underneath his arm. “Just – um, gimme a second.”

Her face flushes. She very deliberately does not look at anywhere further down his chest. After a moment, she turns and reaches for his hair, starts playing with his curls, the way he likes her to when they’re watching TV and he puts his head on her lap.

Peter shakes his head, move away, his arm still over his eyes. “Ah – uh, not helping, sorry.”

Oh. Lara Jean scoots and takes a seat at the foot of the bed. She’d always assumed he’d like that because it was calming, soothing. He told her so, before. Not because it made him . . . well . . .

There’s still so much she doesn’t know, and that realization makes her insides clench with embarrassment.

After a moment, he sits up and joins her – bumps his shoulder with hers. “Um. Sorry. Did I ...?” he starts to say, which kills her. Because he didn’t, not at all. _I’m just being a dumbass._  
  
“No. No, you didn’t. I’m. Uh. It was all a little ...” She falters, searching for the right words.  
  
“ . . . What?”

“ . . . I dunno . . .”

In the corner of her eyes, she sees him nod slowly. “ . . . Much?”  
  
“Just a bit.” She smiles limply at the floor. If she has to look at him right now she might actually die. Like. What was she even going to do after she ... after he was done doing all that to her? Jerk him off? She’s never - she’s never even seen one, before.

There _is_ something she does know, though – knows deep down. It’s what Stormy told her. It’s what her mom probably would have told her.

“It was nice.” Better than nice. “But I’m just not - I’m just not ready for ... you know.”  
  
“Okay. That’s cool.” She hesitates, chances a glance at him before looking back at her toes again. Is he _really_? She’s never done anything like what they just did. And as nice as it was – as good as it felt – she knows she’s not ready.

When she doesn’t answer, he insists, “It is, Covey. Really.”  
  
She nods, still not looking at him. He’s disappointed. She can tell. Maybe even thinking about what could be happening, right now, if he wasn’t here, with her ... That’s what he was probably thinking, at the party. How much he likes hanging out with everybody else, drinking, laughing – meanwhile she was stuck in the kitchen with Lucas, being the wallflower.

 _Not like Gen._  
  
“Hey. What’s up?” She feels him smooth some hair away from her face.  
  
“Nothing,” she says, swallowing. She doesn’t want to bring Gen up. She’s in the past, right? She stands up and grabs her pink coat from Peter’s chair. “Hey. Can I hitch a ride to Belleview?”   
  
“Sure,” he says. She gives him a hand to help him stand. “We good, Covey?”  
  
She nods, smiles up at him. Hopes that he didn’t notice she never said _it_ back.  
  
(He noticed.)  
  
On the drive to Belleview, she keeps playing with a stray thread on her coat sleeve. What if he said it to ... what if he said it just because he wanted her to have sex with him? What if he said it to Gen, while they were - and she pushes that thought away quickly, harshly, aside. She doesn’t like thinking about that, at all. Even though she hasn’t said it back to him - she can’t stand the idea that he’s said it before. Done things before.

It’s not fair. She knows that. But it’s ... it’s just the way she feels.   
  
Yes. She loves him. She loves him so much her throat tightens up and she can’t say it. And if she says it ... out loud ... to him ... it’s not a fairy tale anymore, some place safe and cozy and protected. It’s not something she dreamt into existence. It’s not pretend.  
  
It’ll be real.

And then he can walk right out . . .  
  
Peter pulls his Jeep up to the front steps. Lara Jean busies herself unbuckling and gathering her backpack. When she’s about to get out, she notices he’s texting someone.   
  
Again.   
  
She bites her lip, but chooses not to say anything. “I’ll see you,” she says, quietly. “Thanks.”  
  
“Yeah, no prob,” he says, finally looking up. They look at each other for a spare second, the weight of everything that’s been left unsaid hanging between them, before she shuts the passenger door and climbs the front steps to Belleview.   
  
Janette greets her warmly. “I’m so glad you decided to volunteer officially,” she says. “Stormy adores you.”  
  
“I adore her right back,” Lara Jean says, genuinely.   
  
Janette looks over Lara Jean's shoulder. "Oh! Great! Come in, John."

 _John?_ Lara Jean turns. No way . . .

"Hey," John Ambrose McClare himself says, stunned. A half-smile starts to bloom across his face and she blinks, at a total loss. The only thing she can think about is his letter, to her, safely in her hatbox.

"Hi," she says, and in her attempt to move forward, swings her backpack - and suddenly there's a clatter, she's on the floor, and she's blinking up at a familiar, handsome face.

"Are you okay?"


	5. Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, with the debut of the official second trailer, I changed the ending of the last chapter, "Floor," and made some other minor changes in the other installments. COME ON FEBRUARY!!!

Peter jiggles his legs to the beat of the drums, fiddling with his gloves. Behind him and the rest of the team, the band is playing _You Can Call Me Al_ , and people are still milling about, trying to find seats in the aluminum away stand bleachers. He looks over his shoulder, searching the crowd. Lara Jean said she’d be here, but honestly, he’s not sure if she is coming. Things have been ... weird. And part of it is his fault, he knows that, but - anyway, everything’s been off.  
  
Peter turns back to the field, digs the end of his lacrosse into the turf, pissed. He knows he shouldn’t have guilted her into coming but the truth is he’d been hurt that she never really comes to any of his away games. And, he really wanted her to come to this one.  
  
(It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that this is McClaren’s school and he can rub his nose in it a little bit. That finding out McClaren was her first letter - that they’re working together at Belleview - that all this shit with LJ’s hang-ups on Gen and sex and _his_ hang-up that she won’t say _it_... well ... it’s got nothing to do with all of that. Really.)  
  
“Peter! Peter! _Kavinsky_!”  
  
Frowning, Peter looks over his shoulder again - then stands up, concerned. Gen is behind the chain linked fence, hugging herself.  
  
“Hey,” he says, putting down his stick and taking off his helmet and gloves. He walks over to the fence. “Game’s about to start. I gotta -“  
  
“I walked in on them,” she says, her face crumpling. “He actually had the fucking nerve to bring her back to the house and - God! He’s such an asshole!”  
  
Alarmed, and sickened, he hops the fence. “Hey. Hey, come on,” he says, and leads her over to behind the stands. He puts an arm around her. She starts to shake, and she buries her face in the front of his jersey. “I’m so, so sorry. It’s gonna be okay.”  
  
“Why does he hate us so much?” she sobs, and then he feels a rush of anger - not just at her father, but at his. “I don’t get it.”  
  
“Gen. Come on. Just calm down.” He pats her hair - it’s sticking to her face from the tears. “It’s gonna be okay.”  
  
“Peter?”  
  
He looks up. There’s a half-second where he’s spaced out - doesn’t get what he’s seeing. Like. He _sees_ its Lara Jean - dressed up like a rally girl. His numbers on her cheek, his initials. But he doesn’t actually register it.  
  
And then the look on Lara Jean’s face starts a slow crawl of horror down his stomach and he realizes what this must look like and -  
  
Shit.

Holy shit.  
  
“Wait. Wait wait wait -“ He lets go of Gen. “Lara Jean just wait a sec – ”  
  
Lara Jean takes a step back. She collides with the person behind her – it’s only then that Peter realizes it’s McClaren, wide-eyed and surprised himself. _What the hell._

Did they come here, together?  
  
“I, um,” Lara Jean stammers. “I gotta ...” Then she turns and runs into the crowd of students.  
  
There’s a good long second where McClaren just looks at him evenly – and there’s a shot of anger laced with the worry, because he doesn’t get to look at him like that, the punk ass – but McClaren doesn’t say anything, and then he turns and follows her. “LJ, wait,” he calls, and disappears after her.  
  
 _Shit. Shit shit shit ..._  
  
Peter turns to Gen. “I gotta go.”  
  
Gen rolls her red eyes, wipes her face. “Oh honestly Peter. They obviously -“  
  
“Not _now_ , Gen,” he snaps, and pushes his way through the students. He can see Lara Jean up ahead, hunched over, pigtails bobbing as she walks briskly towards the parking lot. McClaren has a hand between her shoulder blades, guiding her.

“Lara Jean!” he shouts, running after her, but it’s impossible for her to hear him over the chatter of the audience and the marching band music. He tries again. “Covey!”  
  
“Kavinsky!” Peter stops abruptly, at the edge of the parking lot. Coach is stalking towards him, clipboard in the air, blocking the way like a massive wall. “Where the hell have you been, kid?! The game is about to start!”  
  
“Coach, sorry I gotta - my girlfriend, she’s –”  
  
Coach grabs him by the front of his jersey and starts pulling him back to the field. “Teenagers!” he growls. “She’ll get over it. Just buy her flowers.”  
  
He gets one fleeting glimpse of her jumping into the passenger side of a car - _McClaren’s_ car - and then the both of them peeling away from the parking lot.  
  
*  
  
The song ends, drifting off on a low, sweet note. Lara Jean lifts her head from John’s shoulder, sad that their little moment together is over. He looks up too, his gaze warm and far-off, like he just woke from a dream. But then he smiles at her and it’s like she’s stopped breathing, because it’s like he saw her and the sun came up - it’s like that last smile he gave her, that afternoon at the tree house, the day before he and his family moved away, and neither of them had the courage to say or do anything ...  
  
She closes her eyes, moves closer.   
  
John doesn’t move. “You sure?” he asks, so very quietly.  
  
Lara Jean just nods, once. John stills underneath her lips, but then he opens his mouth and presses back. She’s vaguely aware of his hand, gentle, on her jaw - the crispness of his jacket lapel in her trembling fingers - the warm feeling of afternoon sunshine, shimmering around her skin, despite the snow.  
  
“Well, uh -“ John mumbles as they finally pull apart. “Definitely better than what middle school me imagined.”  
  
Lara Jean snickers. “I think middle school me would’ve fainted,” she blathers, which makes him grin harder. Some of her lipstick is smeared on his mouth and she wipes it with her thumb. He nuzzles the palm of her hand and her heart falters, just a fraction, at the simple, sweet motion. But then a gust of wind blows up, sending a swirl of snow around them and her gown fluttering, and she crosses her arms, shivering. “I - uh -“  
  
“Yeah, maybe not a great idea to do this -“  
  
“In the middle of a snow storm?” Lara Jean finishes, giggling.  
  
John laughs and puts his arm around her, as they head towards the patio doors.  
  
Something tall and shadowy and dark green flashes by.  
  
Lara Jean frowns as they re-enter the hall. Mr. Morales accosts John to rave about the party. “I - um - I’m gonna check on Janette, see if she needs -“ she murmurs, barely registering if John heard her, before she walks into the crowd.  
  
Was it ...? It was - why would he even be ...?  
  
 _Did he see us?_  
  
Something cold slices through her, takes hold of her heart and her lungs and doesn’t let go.  
  
Gulping, she takes off at a run - through the function room - towards the main hall. Ahead of her, the front doors open and slam shut, but it’s impossible to see who did it with all the residents mingling in front of her.  
  
Lara Jean runs and opens the front doors.


	6. Snow II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some lines were taken directly from the book.

Peter is jogging down the front steps towards the parking lot. He’s almost at the bottom. Panic – because that’s what it is, this desperate feeling scrabbling inside her ribcage – freezes her. What if he just goes. What if . . .  
  
“Peter,” Lara Jean calls, before she quite knows what she’s doing.  
  
Peter stops at the foot of the stairs. It’s a half-second, but then he straightens, and turns around - lifts his chin. His hands are stuffed in his jacket pockets. He doesn’t say anything, just seems to barely shrug his shoulders, his expression almost defiant.  
  
“Didn’t want to interrupt your cozy date,” he says, casually.  
  
Lara Jean shakes her head. The anger’s gone, at least on her end. “Like I interrupted yours?” she asks, coming down the steps. She stops just short of the bottom - they’re eye-level now.  
  
Peter scoffs at her. “Whatever. I told you - I wasn’t cheating. I never was.”  
  
Lara Jean rolls her eyes. “Whatever, Peter. I’m just - “  
  
“Which is fucking hilarious since it’s pretty obvious you two were -“  
  
“No,” she snaps. “We _weren’t_.”  
  
The wind kicks up again. She hugs herself, rubs her upper arms. Peter’s brows dip, noticing her discomfort, and she looks at him, cautious. “Peter, why are you even here?”  
  
He shrugs. “Just wanted to wish you congratulations. You know. The party. You did it.”  
  
She can feel her own brows knit. “I didn’t know you were paying attention. Back then. You seemed -“ She stops, searching. “Distracted.”  
  
He sucks in his bottom lip, looks down at the ground. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I was. Gen was going through some stuff and -“ He stops, then seems to decide something, and says, slowly, “Her dad’s been cheating on her mom. With this chick – Anna Hicks.”  
  
“ . . . From _Margot’s_ year?” Lara Jean exclaims, horrified.  
  
“Yeah. Stand-up guy, right?” Peter scoffs. “And Gen she’s - she’s been taking it rough. Been doing stuff that’s not ... been really good for her. Drinking too much. And – and other shit.”  
  
Lara Jean looks down at her feet. The way he said that last part chills her. Suddenly all that jealousy, all that suspicion and inadequacy she felt towards, and about, Gen - seems incredibly small. “I - um, didn’t know.”  
  
“She asked me not to tell. Begged. I’ve been trying to - I was trying to help her.”  
  
“Was?”  
  
“Yeah. Was.” He stops, then asks, quietly, “Why didn’t you ... trust me ...?”  
  
She shakes her head. How did everything get so messed up? “It wasn’t that. It was never that. I couldn’t - I didn’t trust myself. I kept thinking about you and her and - how much you’d like it better if you were with someone like her rather than ... me.”  
  
“Covey ...” He sighs. “I never thought that.”  
  
“I know now,” she says. “How come you didn’t tell me earlier? I . . . I wouldn’t have – I would’ve tried to help.”

He bites his lip, shrugs. “You guys seemed to hate each other and I . . . you know, I screwed it up. You and me, the whole fake dating thing? I did that to her, because I was being an asshole. And she didn’t really deserve that.” He toes the gravel with his sneaker. It makes him look so young, and she wants to reach out and brush the hair out of his forehead, kiss his brow.

“That wasn’t all of it, was it?” she whispers. All this coming out now, like this – it’s making her think about things in a new light. Like looking through a snow fall, struggling to see through the whirling flakes, only to realize the storm’s settling – the veil, falling.

He’s still looking at the ground. “I just didn’t want to be like my dad. He and Mom – they needed to get divorced, I get that. But he didn’t have to just – _leave_ us like that.” He shakes his head. “It felt nice to be . . . needed? Which is so screwed up, I know.”

  
They’re quiet, avoiding each other’s eyes. Then he looks up, directly at her. Lara Jean feels her mouth open, suddenly startled. “Are you with him? For real? You and McClaren?”  
  
“I - uh -“ she mumbles. “I don’t - think - that’s, um - ”  
  
Peter nods. “Okay. Right.” He looks squarely at her. “I fucked up. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I broke my promise. But LJ, you broke yours too.”  
  
He pulls out the necklace - her necklace - from his pocket, and hands it back to her. Closes her fingers around the locket, holds her hand, tight. “You keep it. Do whatever the hell you want with it. Just - just don’t break your promise again.”  
  
Lara Jean looks down at her closed hand, at the chain dangling from her fingers. Three weeks ago, if he said this - if he said he was sorry, please come back - she would’ve leapt at him gratefully, cried with relief. Told him, unwavering, _Yes, and I never will break it, and I’m sorry too._  
  
But promises like that - people can’t really keep those kinds of promises, can they? Life - and love - is a lot messier, a lot more complicated, than wishes you can dream into the sky ... It’s not like you can stay in a snow globe, safe from the rest of the world and all the troubles around you.  
  
Before she can say anything, another gust of wind knocks into her back. It’s so strong she stumbles forward down a step or two, straight into Peter’s chest. She stays there for a second, her hair in her face - all Stormy’s hard work curling her hair for nothing - clutching at his jacket helplessly as the snow swirls around them and her teeth chatters. But then she feels his knuckles graze the curve of her cheek and she looks up, heart thumping wildly in her throat, because his eyes are shadowed and she can’t look at him anymore, or she might just give up all over again -  
  
But he doesn’t kiss her, and she doesn’t kiss him. She feels the cold tip of his nose trail up along her cheek, to her temple - her forehead. Lara Jean sighs, breathless and near tears, when she feels him press his lips against her hair.  
  
“Goodnight, Lara Jean,” he whispers, resigned.  
  
Lara Jean swallows, as he takes a step back. There’s a bitter, hot taste in her throat, and she can only look at the ground. The snowflakes have stopped falling, and they haven’t even stuck to the drive.  
  
“Goodnight, Peter.”  
  
He finally turns away, walks back to his car. She heads back up the stairs. At the front doors, she watches his Jeep curve down the drive, into the darkness, away, from her.

And suddenly, it’s like she can’t breathe. She walks back into Belleview, like her limbs are slogging through water. Everything is slow, and thick, with memory. She keeps thinking about the courtyard, not ten minutes ago, dancing in the snow. She keeps thinking about sending lanterns into the sky.

What does she want? What – who – can’t she live without?


	7. Time

“Come on!” LJ calls over her shoulder, backpack thumping, as she heads to the tree house.

John lets her get to the ladder first. He clambers up after her, then tosses his backpack down and starts rifling through its contents. “Can’t you just go to your neighbor’s?” he asks, pulling out his sweatshirt and throwing it aside. “What’s his name?”

“Josh? Yeah, I guess.” Lara Jean shrugs. She’s already got her copy of _Harry Potter_ out. “But I like reading here.”

John smiles into his backpack. He wants to say, _I like reading here too._ But that wouldn’t be the _entire_ truth. He likes reading here, with her. Peter and Trevor have been giving him hell lately, telling him he should ask LJ to the formal already, but he’s not really sure she likes him back. Spin-the-bottle at Trevor’s two weeks ago kind of made him re-think things.

Besides, he’s got time, right?

The sun begins to set. Every so often he’ll look up and he’ll catch Lara Jean looking at him over the edge of the pages and he’ll smile and she’ll smile back and he looks back at the words, re-reading the same sentence over and over, wondering if he should just go for it. Ask her to the formal. Kavinsky had been bragging the entire week that he’d already asked Gen and she said yes, but honestly, John didn’t think it was _that_ brave of him – Genevieve had been basically needling Peter for at least a month about it. He already knew – _everyone_ already knew – that Gen would say yes. Lara Jean Song-Covey, on the other hand . . .

The orange sunset begins to slant through the boards when Lara Jean looks up and checks her watch. “Margot should be back,” she says.

“My mom should be, too.” They pack up their things in silence.

John climbs down the ladder first. At the bottom, he holds onto LJ’s hand and helps her down. She blushes up at him, smiling – expectantly? – and the sunlight is flaring golden against her pigtails so prettily, and then the courage that’s been bubbling inside his chest starts to surge up.

“Do you wanna go to – ”

“Lara Jean?” Both of them turn. Her older sister is peering at them from the trellis gate. “I thought you might be here. Come on. Dad’s getting worried.”

“Oh!” LJ slides her arms through her backpack. “See ya,” she says, rushed.

“Later,” he calls, both relieved and disappointed.

Three days later, Dad and Mom sit him down and let him know they’re moving out of town by the end of the month. The tree house gang is shocked. Even Gen looks a little worried, frowning at him and Lara Jean and then back at Peter. His last weekend in Greenpoint, they all come over to the house with a cake Lara Jean baked especially for him – chocolate, with his name spelled out in Reese’s pieces.

As they’re all eating it on the front porch, John realizes he won’t be going to that formal – that he didn’t have the time, after all. He’s too young to understand what bittersweet really means, at least at that age, but he’s glad that Lara Jean came to say good-bye.

*

It takes a while to find Lara Jean again. There are residents to entertain, juice and cookies to serve, and of course playing DJ. But when the last song ends, and the residents start heading up to bed, and the caterers are packing up, and John finds her sweeping up confetti into a pan. “Hey,” he says, smiling, as she looks up and sets the broom and pan aside.

He freezes when he sees the expression on her face.

“John,” she whispers, when he reaches for her hand. She presses her lips together and starts again, her voice cracking. “I’m so – so sorry, but . . .”

“Goddamnit, Kavinsky.” He should’ve figured.

“I could fall in love with you so easily,” she says. “I’m halfway there already. You’re so perfect in my memory, and you’re perfect now. It’s like I dreamed you into being. Of all the boys, you’re the one I would pick.”

“But?”

“But . . . I still love Peter. I can’t help it. He got here first and he . . . he just won’t leave.” She shakes her head, sadly.

He wants to say, _You’re perfect in my memory. You’re perfect now._ It’s true.

But she’s perfect to someone else, too.

He nods, once, slowly. “I get it,” he says, touching her curls. She catches his wrist and smiles up at him, tearful – and grateful, always, at being so well understood. “We always had bad timing, I guess.”

“I wish,” she says, earnestly, “that we did get to go to the formal. That after reading Harry Potter, we did get to have that kiss.”

“I don’t think it was our time then. I guess it isn’t now, either,” he says, regretful. He leans over and kisses her forehead, a goodbye. Her breath hitches. He pulls back and looks at her, and he sees her eyes soften, when she looks back at him. “But maybe one day it will be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John and Lara Jean's conversation at Belleview is taken directly from the book.


	8. Sun

His bedroom light is still on.

Lara Jean bites her bottom lip. It’s so late – early, technically. If she doesn’t get home soon, Dad will wake up, find out she never got back home, and promptly lose it.

But this couldn’t wait.

“Hey,” she says into her phone, when Peter picks up.

“ . . . Hi.”

He sounds . . . all right. Cautious, maybe. She takes a deep breath. “Can you come down?”

“ . . . Down?”

“Yeah. Downstairs.”

“Downstairs?”

“Yeah, I’m downstairs,” she says, almost exasperated. “I’m outside.”

“The hell – ?” She hears shuffling, and then his shadow appears in his bedroom window. She waves, even though she can’t see his expression. He doesn’t wave back. “What are you . . .?”

“Can we talk?” she asks, quietly. “I, um . . . think we should talk.”

Absurdly, she thinks about the time at the science center – how he asked to talk, and she wouldn’t let him. What if he says no? What if . . .

Nervously, she fiddles with the locket, back against her neckline.

Peter’s shadow shifts. “Yeah. I’ll be right down.”

Turns out, Peter’s idea of “right down” is literally “right down.” The next thing she knows, he’s opening the window and climbing onto the roof of the porch.

“What are you _doing?_ ” she hisses.

“The front door squeaks, my mom will totally hear me,” he says.

“Thought you didn’t have a curfew,” she points out, as he shuffles over to the edge of the roof.

“Yeah, well, if I go out now – ” He pauses, gauging the distance from the bottom, before sliding forward on his butt. He lands, somewhat unartfully, and brushes the dirt from his jeans. That’s when she realizes he’s still wearing his clothes from earlier. The idea that he was still up both warms and pains her. She’d never wanted to hurt him. Even when she was angry, and she wanted him to hurt as much as she was aching, she didn’t _really_ want to hurt him. “Then she’ll want to know why and where and – uh . . .” He pauses, a little embarrassed. “And uh, well, she’s not really – happy with y – I mean, about things . . . right now.”

Lara Jean pauses herself. She’d always liked Mrs. Kavinsky. How much did Peter tell her about what was going on?

“Forget I said anything,” he says, quickly.

“Yeah, okay,” she murmurs. She jerks her head towards the sidewalk, and rubs her upper arms against the chill. “Do you want to walk?”

He nods. She leads the way. There’s only the sounds of their footsteps on the pavement, her clacking heels. Which are killing her. After they turn the corner she stops and says, “Hold up,” and reaches for a tree to steady herself. “My shoes,” she says, unstrapping the high-heeled sandals from her feet. She pause, startled, when he grabs her hand and helps her right herself. As she straightens, he lets go, frowning.

“Here,” he says, pulling his jacket off and covering her shoulders with it. She’s enveloped in the smell of him – the spray he uses, faintly cool and crisp, something she’s missed so dearly she nearly closes her eyes. He starts to pull back again, but she grabs his hand, and keeps holding on.

On their way, he glances side-long at her – curious, but not angry or sad – and she glances back. She wants to ask, “What?” but that wouldn’t be fair, she knows, since she’s the one who to came him. She should do the talking, right? But she also doesn’t know what to say. No, that’s not the truth – she knows what to say. What she should say. She just can’t get it out. If only she had written it down. That would’ve been easier.

He glances over at her again, this time with a half-smile.

“What?” she asks, because she has to now.

He shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says, still with that slight upturn of the corner of his lips.

She can’t help it. She smiles back.

They’ve wandered over to the Roberts’. He leads the way, through the flowered trellis arch, still looking at her with that expression on his face. And she can’t seem to wipe the same one from hers, either.

It’s getting lighter out. The sun is coming. Already she feels warmer, like the storm has passed.

Peter stops right before the tree house, lets go of her hand. “So, why did you – ” he starts to say, but she grabs the back of his head and pulls him down for a kiss. There’s a half-second where he doesn’t do anything, like he’s shocked, and she’s suddenly afraid he’ll pull away, but then she opens her mouth, and he does too, and they’re kissing each other so hard she loses her balance and he has to hold her up, dizzied and spinning.

“I – I need – ” she mumbles, incoherent, when they pull apart.

“Huh?” he mumbles back, his forehead against hers.

She shakes her head – steps back, so she can look at him. “What you said, earlier? I – I needed you, too.”

His eyes shadow, sad. He plays with the barrettes in her hair for a moment, before he says, softly, “It’s just – you never seemed to? You have your dad. Your sisters. You have – ”

“I have you,” she interrupts, catching both of his hands in hers. The sleeve cuffs of his jacket envelope both of them, linked under the soft cloth. “Or – or I had?”

He shakes his head, kisses the tip of her nose so tenderly she feels like she’s going to melt into a puddle of blue dress and his jacket. And that simply won’t do. “Have.”

She nods. There’s something else she needs to say, something important. “I kept thinking – that if I said _it_ out loud – everything – you . . . you’d leave me, anyway. Just like . . .” She stops, her breath catching.

She thinks about what Trina said, about what Stormy said. To live in the moment. Take everything in. Experience everything. That it’s okay to be scared. To just, be. And she knows, that even though she isn’t here, Mom would’ve told her that, too . . .

“And I never said it, and it _still_ happened.”

“Covey.” He looks at her, pained. “I didn’t tell you – I never wanted to hurt – ”

“I know.”

“It’s just . . . I thought you’d judge . . . you’re such an innocent, Lara Jean. I didn’t want you looking at me and thinking . . .”

A wave of emotion goes through her – sadness, thinking that he’d think that, of her – and a bit of wonderment, realizing that he’d put her, of all people, on some kind of pedestal.

That he was scared, too.

“Well,” she says, slow and measured. “Now I know, there are no guarantees. No promises. If I want it all, I got to give it all. And I want . . . I want it all.”

He squeezes her hands. “If we’re so guarded, it’s not going to be anything. Let’s do it for freaking real, Lara Jean. Let’s go all in. No more contract. No more safety net.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He grins down at her, hugs her tightly to him, his face in the crook of her neck. She runs her fingers through his hair, holds on so hard, for dear life, because she feels like otherwise, she might float away.

“So . . . say it,” he whispers.

“Say what?” she murmurs.

“It,” he huffs out, laughingly. “You know. Say it.”

She keeps her eyes closed. It’s still at the bottom of her throat, swelling, in her chest. It almost hurts. But she knows it’s okay, that it’ll be okay. To have it all, you have to risk it all.

She pulls away, to look at him, to cup his cheek. And she rises up on her tiptoes and whispers, against his grin –

“I love you, Peter Kavinsky.”

And whatever he was going to reply is lost in his answering kiss. But she knows, as the sun breaks over them to begin the new day, what it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a good chunk of Peter's speech is taken directly from the novel, and some of Lara Jean's thoughts are too.


	9. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand that's it for this one! It's almost the 12th!!!! EEEEeeeeeeEEEEEEEEE.

“They’re not gonna make it. They’re not gonna make it. They’re not gonna make it,” Lucas mutters under his breath.

Lara Jean ignores him, her hands clasped underneath her chin. The Fallsview players have possession. She can barely see Peter, dodging in and out of the fray. Nervously, she looks at the timer on the scoreboard. Twenty seconds left, tie game. Last game of the regular season. If Adler wins, they’ll go to the playoffs.

She squeezes her eyes shut, sends up a prayer. _Please please please please_. . .

There’s a roar around her – Lucas grabs her around the shoulders. “Turnover, turnover!” he yells and she opens and her eyes and shrieks, standing up with him. Peter’s halfway down the field towards their goal, but he’s got two defenders on him. She bites her fist, looks at the clock – seven seconds – looks back –

And then Peter flicks the ball through the defenders . . . right at Trevor, by the goal –

Who scores.

Everybody in the home stands screams. Not that Lara Jean can hear, because she’s busy jumping up and down with Lucas, screaming so hard that she starts to see stars exploding in front of her eyes. The players are all swarming Trevor –she sees Peter jump into the huddle – and she bursts out laughing, yanking at Lucas’ arm. “Come on,” she says, following the crowd towards the field.

It doesn’t take her long to find Peter. “Hi!” she shouts, as he rips off his helmet.

He doesn’t answer – just grabs her around her middle and lifts her up in a huge bear hug. “Ah, stop it, you stink you stink you smeeeeeeeellllllll!”

“You love it!” he laughs. He sets her down but doesn’t let go – only presses sloppy kisses on her cheek. His hair, damp with sweat, swipes against her face. He’s probably smeared his numbers off her cheek. Lara Jean pretends to gag, struggling, which of course only makes him laugh harder and dig his fingers into her sides, tickling.

“Peter? Peter!”

They stop. Lara Jean pulls away immediately, embarrassed. Ever since they got back together, several months ago, she doesn’t know how to act around Mrs. Kavinsky. She just knows things have been off – that the warm, friendly atmosphere that used to greet her whenever she came over to Peter’s has faded to something politely cooler.

“Hi, Mrs. Kavinsky,” Lara Jean says, clearing her throat. She steps away from Peter – but he keeps his arm around her shoulders.

Mrs. Kavinsky smiles at her. There it is again, the smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m sorry Lara Jean, but I need Peter. Honey, there’s a recruiter here.” Lara Jean stiffens in surprise. The arm around her shoulders slackens a bit. “He wants to talk to you.”

It’s really rare for Lara Jean to see Peter flustered. His face goes gray for a second, before he glances at her, his eyes wide. It makes her smile. “Don’t just stand there, go!” she exclaims, excited. Wow. A recruiter. For Peter . . .

“Uh, yeah, yeah, uh, wow,” he says, fumbling. He picks up his helmet from the ground. “How do I look?”

“Here.” She tries to fix his helmet hair for him, but it’s kind of impossible – and his jersey, of course, is hopeless. “Just – just go. You’re fine. You’re good.”

“I’m good?”

“You’re great. Go!” She shoos him away. As he disappears into the crowd with his mother, he turns one last time. She gives him two thumbs up, grinning ecstatically. He grins back, waves, and goes.

*

Peter frowns, gauging the distance between the ground and the front porch roof. Then he jumps – hauls himself up with only a little bit of effort – and crouches over to Lara Jean’s window.

He taps the glass with his knuckle – three times, then once. A shadow moves behind the curtains and he hears shuffling.

“Hi,” Lara Jean whispers, pushing the window open. He crawls in, nearly knocking the snow globe off her window sill, before righting it.

“Sorry, did I wake you?”

“No,” she says, yawning.

“Liar,” he says, flopping down on her bed and toeing off his sneakers.

“I couldn’t really sleep,” she fibs, sitting down next to him. “Come on! Tell!”

He hesitates. Part of him – a huge part of him – is really excited. The other . . . But Lara Jean is grinning at him, happy and proud, and he thinks, _Well. Why the hell not?_

“Yeah, so . . . they want to give me a full scholarship. If I commit by January.” That last part is lost in her squeal, barely smothered by her hand.

“That’s amazing! That’s so so so amazing,” she whisper-shrieks, hugging him. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, breathing her in, trying to steady himself. “Peter, oh my god. I can’t believe you’re not freaking out right now.”

“I kinda did already,” he admits. She giggles, and he blows a raspberry into her neck, which makes her giggle more. He pulls away though – brushes some hair away from her flushed face. He bites his bottom lip, gearing up for it, and her jubilant expression starts to fade.

“What’s up?”

“It’s uh – I thought it was gonna be Oregon.”

“It’s not Oregon State?” she says, confused.

“No. Uh. It’s U of Washington.”

“ . . . _Seattle_?”

“Yeah.” He nods, slowly. Nervously.

“I . . . I wasn’t even thinking about out of state schools,” she says, almost dumbly.

He knows. Spring break Dr. Covey had taken her and Kitty on a road trip to look at Oregon State and Portland and Reed. She’d become back debating the merits of going to college in a big city or a suburban campus and at the time Peter hadn’t much of it, because he’d assumed wherever she was going, he’d go there too. Every one of those places had lax programs.

“Do you wanna? Go, I mean?” he asks, trying to keep his voice even, as he looks at her. It seems – it _is_ – a big deal. College is over a year away, and they aren’t even allowed to start applying yet, but suddenly it seems like it’s around the corner, looming.

“Well, I – I dunno,” she admits, not unkindly. “We didn’t see Washington. And I know it’s hard to get into, I can’t imagine how hard it’ll be for an out-of-state applicant who doesn’t play lacrosse – ”

“The average GPA of admitted students is 3.8,” he says, a little too quickly. Lara Jean looks at him, bemused. “You’ll get in. Here, look.” He pulls out his phone and opens it up to the University of Washington home page. He starts scrolling through all the shots of happy students living their best lives on an idyllic campus. “And it’s got a great English program. And a chem program. Because my bae has to be a double-threat smarty-pants.”

Lara Jean smirks up at him, then goes back to studying the pictures. Her smile goes from unsure to steady, and the relief that goes through him when she finally looks up and says, sweetly, “Well. Looks like I’m applying to Washington,” is more overwhelming than he’s willing to admit. Instead, he grins, grabs her around the waist, and as quietly as he can, bear-growls into her neck.

“It’ll be great, you’ll see,” he says, as they lie on their backs on her bed, LJ nestled into his chest and her leg slung around his hip. He yawns, as she murmurs her agreement.

“Hey. You know what Lucas told me? There’s a rumor that the senior trip next year is gonna be New York City.”

“What?” Peter laughs. “That’ll be incredible.”

“Yeah.” She yawns. “Could you imagine going to college there?”

He snorts. “No. That’s way too far.”

“Well, half the distance for Margot.”

“Mmmph.”

“You should go soon,” she sighs, a few minutes later, right when he’s on the edge of sleep. He jerks awake, startled, then scrubs his hand over his face.

“Yeah. Okay. Hey, come here.” He stands up, and lifts the blanket. Lara Jean giggles as she slides underneath the covers and he tucks it around her. In the half-light of the moon, with her hair spread out on the pillows, she looks like a cute, snug little burrito. He crouches by the bed. “Hey. Just think. Little over a year, I don’t _have_ to get up and leave.”

She opens her eyes. He can’t see if she blushes, but he can feel her face heat up. Her teeth gleam in the darkness. “It all sounds so perfect,” she whispers, gently, and then kisses him good night so tenderly he forgets why he was leaving in the first place.

By the time he gets back home, he also forgets all about the fight he had with Mom.

*

“Hey, what’s this?”

Lara Jean looks up from measuring sugar. Peter’s on her laptop, frowning at the screen. “How many cups?”

“One and one-quarter. What’s this?”

She finishes measuring, wipes her hands on the dishtowel, and goes over to look. Peter’s clicked off the brownie recipe and her application for NYU is up on the screen instead.

“Oh,” she says, clicking save. “Margot was saying – you know, I should at least do one reach school.”

“Washington was your reach,” Peter says, frowning.

“You said I should get in, no problem.” she reminds him, frowning back.

“I thought you said you wanted to stay in state,” he says, his brows pulling downward even more.

“Washington isn’t in state, either,” she says, confused. “Look, it’s not like I’m getting into NYU. It’s my reach. I just – liked the idea of New York City. You liked it, too.”

“Yeah, but that was, like – you know. After college,” he says, sliding the laptop away across the island. “Not like, _now_.”

She shrugs. It’s really not that big of a deal. The senior trip had been incredible – just being able to explore the city with her friends, with Peter. Maybe she’s doing it on a whim, all because she just happened to stumble on the campus when she and Chris got momentarily lost. The thriving, busy student body – the old architecture mixed with the slick modern buildings – all in the middle of the most exciting and vibrant city in the world.

Besides, it’s not going to happen anyway. She’s late in applying, which isn’t a good sign. And even if it does happen, it’ll just be a nice story to tell – that she got into _the_ NYU, and she could’ve gone, but didn’t. That’s all.

“And you’re the one always saying _I_ worry too much,” she says, tweaking his nose. The line in between his brows eases, but he doesn’t smile at her, not exactly. She gives him a quick peck on the lips. Then another, more lingeringly. And another – until the corners of his mouth start to turn up. “Come on,” she murmurs, wiping a bit of her lip gloss off his lips. “It’ll be all right. Right?”

“Right,” he says, fake-grudgingly. “Those brownies better be life-changing, Covey.”

She smiles back, and gets to work. As they chatter and she mixes, she reassures herself there’s really nothing to worry about. Everything will work out, in the end.

-The End-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based this one off on sketchy imdb.com casting, haha. Supposedly some extra is playing an "NYU student" for the third movie. Which is interesting. And obviously, they can't have the UNC/UVA drama in the movie since it's set in the Portland, OR suburbs . . . ANYWAY this was just a guess!!!! Bring on Wednesday!!!!


End file.
